Something was missing…

 

great big hole of Nothingness

great big hole of Nothingness

So there I was, living my normal, day-to-day routine… 

I wake up at 5:30am to prepare my son’s breakfast… by 7am, I see him off… then I fix hubby’s breakfast… by 9am — or 10, depending on his schedule for the day — I see hubby off…  Then I am left at home all by myself pretty much for the most part of the day.

I wash the dishes… fix the clutter… go online to check Facebook, check mails, do online banking… On the days when I have a driver, I get to go to the bank and do the grocery… I do a hundred errands before my son gets back home from school in the afternoon… And then I begin preparing dinner.

If it is not baseball season, I am not as busy.  But then again, when is it NOT baseball season?  My son and the hubby seem to have games every-single-weekend that finding myself at home on a Sunday is more than a luxury… it’s more of a surprise.

Lately, though, I have been feeling a little weird.  It’s like there seemed to be something missing from my day to day activities.  I couldn’t really put my finger on it at first… but there was a gaping hole somewhere in my chest.  I felt like I had to do something. Something that I I haven’t done in a while.

And then  the realization… I’ve missed writing.  I haven’t written anything of substance for quite some time.  No blog, no write up… not even a journal or diary entry.  Nada.  I was so “busy” doing the things I normally do that I just couldn’t find the time to write.

Yeah right.  Truth be told, there were a lot of things I wanted to write about… and I wasn’t always that busy.  I had free time,  too. There were those times when I catch myself just staring into space — because I don’t have anything important to do nor to think about at the moment.  Yet I still didn’t use those times for writing.  Come on, sometimes it does feel good just staring into nothingness…’Sometimes’ being the operative word.

But I guess one really goes back to what he or she is passionate about.  You may leave it or let go of it for a time, but it always finds its way back to you… or you find yourself back to it.  

I can’t ignore this gaping hole anymore.  I believe I was born to write.

And so I write.

Dear Diary...

Dear Diary…

*****

photos via google images and wikipedia

 

 

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